


Oceans

by undergroundnetworking



Category: Sherlock (TV), johnlock - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Art, Fluff, M/M, Pretentious, Solid ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-14
Updated: 2016-06-14
Packaged: 2018-07-15 00:16:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7197374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/undergroundnetworking/pseuds/undergroundnetworking
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hello kittens, this is super arty. This is my first fanfiction that was written as a part of my practice QCS exams. The theme was 'what feeds us' and I chose art. This follows train of thought writing and I'm pretty sure I've missed some apostrophes so feel free to pull me up on that. Thank you for reading my loves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oceans

Blue

Twelve hours. John paces the flat unable to rid his mind of worry. Sherlock has been in his room for twelve hours. Not once has he welcomed the knocking at his door and not once has he replied to the obnoxious tones of John's persistent texts. Within the room silky, thick magenta flies across a canvas, spilling somewhat haphazardly onto the walls, darkened by the drawn curtains. Within his heart is the same uneven spattering of magenta, slowly filling his mind with oxygen. 

John slumps into the leather armchair in the sitting room, resting just too close to the fireplace to become quickly overheated. He knows what Sherlock is doing and it terrifies him. The spiral of it. This used to happen so frequently when they had first moved in together but after a while John helped to slow his mind and the vigorous painting would be less frequent, less violent. His addiction would cease and eventually it stilled for six months all together. That was up until now. John knows it's not his fault... But what if it is? What if this time he's pushed Sherlock too far? Moving out was a feat but he was back now wasn't he and wouldn't be leaving again. Not the only one who's been betrayed. 

Blue streaks mirroring lightening strike the canvas and flood the veins in the room adjacent. 

John's heart races, this can only go downhill. He can only go downhill. They need to talk. Now. Why don't they ever just talk? John watch him paint? Help? Console? It's too much for both of them and far, far too much for Sherlock evidently. John gets out of the chair with some amount of effort required to push him off the fabric and before the making of a conscious or rational decision has occurred knocks on Sherlock's door. 1am. This is ridiculous and it can't be helping either of their mental states. Why did it pick up so much when he left? They would still see each other if not rarely, but this was different. John was the only person Sherlock's ever had and losing that albeit only for a month and under false pretences damaged him, severed his trust. Severed his heart. 

The knocking was left unanswered and again without too much thinking involved in the process John opened the door. The canvas was big. Bigger than the window would have been and so fraught with emotion and fragility. Reds clashing with blues, cremes slicing purples. Sherlock looked shocked at the entrance for a moment as if he renderd John incapable of opening a door, speechless but not angry. His face simply stood there, a small amount of glassiness in his eyes. Tears? John thought. Must be bad this time, haven't seen that before. John looked at the canvas and to the unmoving Sherlock before reaching over to take his hand which made Sherlock's face appear all the more confused, scrunching a little, maybe melancholy?   
It was warm.   
"Talk to me" John said more as a question than a statement to which the response was swift,  
"I just...can't".   
John closed his eyes,  
"Okay then...tell me about your art and if not just...art in general"  
Sherlock pouted for a minute, worrying John he'd freeze up and then clenched John's hand just receptively enough to to be, well...nice.   
"Art is the only thing that makes my heat beat fast in a good way. It feeds me, my brain, my heart, I can make my fantasies a reality, I can feel... I can interoperate what I like and it's the most powerful source of knowledge I've come across. It teaches of humanities triumphs and failures and it educates the world. Educates me. I can express how I feel and I don't have to say it..." He slows now, "it feeds my mind and my soul. It's my release, and for a while I'm okay. Without art the crudeness of reality would make the world unbearable..." He tails off and John feels an overwhelming sense of emotion that hasn't been present until now. As if his mind was a canvas. Thoughts, the paint that helps each individual so much. Shapes their entire lives. Sherlock still looks damages but better. John looks up, "why has it started again now?"

Sherlock rubs his thumb over the pulse in Johns wrist, making eye contact with him and in that moment noticing his eves are very like the blue paint. Just clearer.


End file.
